The Waffle Palace
by TrinityWildcat
Summary: What would happen if Grissom's worst enemy found out about his relationship with Sara? Featuring workplace politics, waffles, and Grissom in a white shirt and jeans. Hey, I know my audience.


_The Waffle Palace_.

It was not a name to inspire confidence, Conrad Ecklie reflected. But it did imply that one could have confidence that no-one there would just have watched the news, and thus he could sample its no doubt unpleasant wares without cries of "Hey, aren't you that guy off the TV? You guys making any progress? Man, if it was me, I'd try… " Or sundry other unhelpful comments from the great uneducated, many of whom felt that a few hours watching TV made them greater experts in forensic science than professionals who had dedicated their lives to mastering the science of collecting evidence, capturing criminals and providing the public with a good return on its taxes. Not that they ever saw it that way.

He parked his car, checked the lock, and strolled across to the Waffle Palace, resolutely not glancing at his watch or turning on his cell phone. He knew well what he would find on there. Marcia's voice, in that precise, dry tone she had developed lately. _Conrad, you said you would be home on time, even if you DO have to work this Saturday. Just this one time. It's important to me. But I guess you had something more important to do. _Really, it would save them both time if she just recorded it onto tape; then he could play it every time he had to stay late to ensure that his team closed their cases, or tidy up after Grissom and his band of socially maladjusted misfits had managed, yet again, to offend the powers that be.

_Grissom_… now there was a sore spot, he reflected, as he placed an order for black coffee – just black coffee, nothing edible, that way there was an even chance of escaping food poisoning. It had felt satisfying at the time, reminding Grissom that the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau did not exist purely to service his own obsessions with god-knew-what far-out theories about beetles, and that the individuals who worked with him were state employees, to be deployed where those with the ability to make decisions about the best use of public resources felt best, not Grissom's substitute family.

That victory had soured somewhat since the aftermath of a particularly memorable row with Marcia. Damnit, she was his _wife_. They were supposed to be able to _discuss_ personal issues with each other. But he had come home after an exhausting week, wanting nothing more than the chance to unwind, to unburden himself of some of the strain of being Assistant Director, and she had snapped. Unreasonably. He had merely mentioned that he suspected Sofia of being in league with Grissom, of forgetting who had given her her opportunities whilst in her current employ, and Marcia had thrown the glass of wine she had been holding at him, staining the couch. He could remember her words only too clearly. _Conrad Ecklie, I swear that you spend more time thinking about how to fuck over Dr Grissom than you do thinking about fucking me_.

_There's no need for that! _he had replied, mopping the wine from his face and shirt.

_There's every fucking need. You barely notice I'm here. We swore to love each other, but I swear you were only thinking 'That's that box ticked… now what else do I do to get that little step higher up the ladder?' It's never going to be enough for you, is it, Conrad? You'll never stop trying to compensate_.

_Compensate for what?_ he had replied, perhaps _inadvisably_.

_Oh, never mind_, she had replied, with a withering glance, and stalked out to phone her mother. Since then, relations between them could best be described as frosty, which was no small part of the reason he had detoured off his usual route home and was now standing awkwardly in front of a till waiting for a spotty teenager to remember how to calculate the change for a $5 bill for a $2.40 coffee. The teenager eventually remembered elementary math, gave him the change with a muttered 'Here-you-go-have-a-nice-day-sir", and he headed out toward the car, where he intended to consume the coffee and head home to face the music. If he were going to be screamed at, he ought to at least pay Marcia the compliment of being awake. It was unlikely she would appreciate it, but one never knew. He returned to his car, locked the doors, stuck the air-conditioning on, turned the radio on low and sipped the coffee. It was surprisingly pleasant.

He leaned his head against the rest, and tried not to think about the weekend of awkward silences and attempts to pretend that things were just fine that awaited him. Was it any wonder that he had begun to spend longer and longer at the lab? He could claim that it was because of the pressures of his new position, but they both knew that he was more than equal to the challenge of additional responsibility. No, the problem was simply that Marcia was no longer content to wait for him to retire before he was able to spend a little more time with her. Whether she would be willing to give up the lifestyle that he could provide for them both would, of course, be another matter. Her teacher's salary would hardly cover most of it, now, would it?

All very socially worthwhile, of course. It certainly didn't hurt for it to be known than he was married to a grade-school teacher – such a caring, worthwhile profession, reassuring those who saw him that he was a solid family man, someone they could trust with their safety. Unlike Grissom, about whom who could only conclude that it was probably a blessing he hadn't seen fit to reproduce. _His_ children would probably have emerged from the womb clad in jumpsuits and wielding a blue-light torch – assuming the socially inept night-shift supervisor could actually find a woman willing to risk mingling her genes with his.

Ecklie smiled slightly at this picture and, feeling his mood lift somewhat, amused himself by observing the stream of humanity wandering across the parking lot in search of carbohydrates and caffeine. He almost wished he had risked a waffle. Surely no germ could survive being deep-fried in boiling oil, now? His eyes roamed the lot with a professional's detachment, spotting a newlywed couple _here_, a family having a row _there_, a girl out jogging with her dog deciding that the diet could start tomorrow, a familiar-looking truck pulling into the lot a few spaces ahead of his own… He watched it idly as it stopped, and a man emerged from it, clad in a white shirt and jeans. Hmm. He frowned. The man looked familiar…. No, it couldn't be, he had Grissom on the brain and it was more than past time he went home and forgot all about the lab for a few blessed hours. Except that, if you mentally substituted a jumpsuit for the shirt and jeans, it _did_ look like Grissom… because, he realised, reading the license plate carefully, it _was_ Grissom, apparently in search of caffeine himself.

Oblivious to being watched, the night-shift supervisor set off across the tarmac, delving into his pockets for his wallet. It was an odd time for the man to be up and around, Ecklie realised, glancing at his watch. Perhaps he just couldn't sleep. Ecklie finished the coffee and steeled himself to go home, when he noticed from the corner of his eye that the door of Grissom's Tahoe was opening. It appeared his earlier thoughts about the unlikelihood of Grissom ever reproducing had been somewhat inaccurate, as, it seemed, were the rumours about why the man had nearly reached his fifties without once getting married. The long legs emerging from the Tahoe were, undoubtedly and indeed unmistakably, female. Hmmph. Ecklie decided he had seen enough, and was about to turn the key in the ignition, when he caught the woman's image in his peripheral vision, blinked, and stared again. Despite theincongruous sandals, denim shorts, and black t-shirt, despite the fact that he had never seen her out of the utilitarian pants, shirts and flats she habitually wore to work, the woman was someone he knew very well indeed.

Sara Sidle.

Ecklie stared – there was no other word for it – and, almost without thinking, wound down the window a crack, as Grissom loped across the parking lot, clutching a brown paper bag and a cardboard tray of drinks. Words drifted across to him.

"You wanted maple syrup, did I hear that right?"

"Uh-huh. And cappuccino with skimmed milk. Did you have enough change?"

"Yes, no problem." Grissom reached the Tahoe and plonked the bag down on the truck's roof. "I still don't quite see why these waffles are superior to home-made waffles. They're precisely the same."

"That IS the point. If you're going to eat junk food, you should just go for broke. Maximum flavour, maximum satisfaction. Also, if you make the waffles, they don't taste right. You have to drive out and buy them when the craving hits. And don't look at me like that. Waffle cravings can't be explained by any rational theory known to mankind. Or womankind. Plus you wanted one too."

Grissom was wearing the expression of male bafflement that might be transcribed as _All I did was ask what was wrong with the store-bought waffles_. Ecklie recognised the type through bitter experience. _You just wait a few years, Grissom_, he thought savagely. _Wait til she's put on ten pounds and is bitching about the hours you're working whilst watching the wide_ _screen TV on the leather couch your overtime paid for_. He watched with mouth slightly open as Grissom smiled, reached into the bag, broke off a piece of waffle and actually fed it to Sidle. Watching the woman whom he still vividly remembered yelling vicious personal insults at him acting like a lovestruck teenager was nearly as nauseating as watching Grissom smiling widely, mopping the syrup from Sidle's face with his thumb.

"Mmm… thanks… you know how to show a girl a good time." _Oh please, spare me the second-rate dialogue_. Grissom cocked his head on one side. Mouth still slightly agape, Ecklie watched with a sense of mounting personal glee as Grissom gently pulled Sidle against him and she eagerly wrapped her arms around his neck. _Oh, so this isn't a recent development… Grissom, I'm going to have your nuts in a vice for this_. Ecklie watched with mixed glee and embarrassment as the two kissed in front of him, oblivious to their surroundings. Eventually, they pulled apart, and he could just make out Grissom's words. "It's nearly a month now, Sara… decision time coming up."

"Yeah… I know. Just… not yet. One last weekend, then we start thinking about the difficult stuff?"

"OK. One last weekend. Are we going back to mine?"

"I was thinking we could go back to mine…"

"Mine is nearer." _Yes, _Ecklie thought distractedly, Grissom lived nearby.

"Ah, but mine has whipped cream. Goes better with… waffles."

Grissom shrugged his broad shoulders. "I never argue with a woman who carries a gun." He opened the door for her. Ecklie could just make out Sidle's voice replying "It's 'a loose _cannon_ with a gun', Grissom, I'm thinking of getting that put on a T-shirt…" The Tahoe left the parking lot, and Ecklie stared ahead of him, thoughts racing. He drove home on auto-pilot, grinning with the happy glee of a vindictive bureaucrat, savouring the moment. Gil Grissom, monk-like workaholic extraordinaire, dipping his nib in the company ink? That _was_ unexpected, but not, he reflected, entirely unsurprising. Did the man meet anyone outside the lab? _Does he need to, with the number of nubile females we've got working there? Willows, Sofia, that prim lab tech… even the _receptionist_ doesn't look too bad, if she would just take those glasses off… but Sidle now, there's an frightening thought. Grissom's braver than I thought… though I guess that ass and those legs could inspire even _him

He snorted with laughter at the thought of what they must talk about afterwards – bugs, forensics, the latest gruesome murder? Autopsy results? - mind carefully skating over the _before_ that that implied, and the somewhat unfortunate comparison with his own love life, or absence thereof. He parked the car, flipped the alarm and headed inside to amuse himself for an hour or so planning how to handle this. Played carefully, this could secure his own position for good, and even remove the public relations catastrophe just waiting to happen that was Sara Sidle. Admittedly, there was no official rule against dating a co-worker, except that Sidle and Grissom weren't co-workers; he was her boss.

Ecklie stopped for a minute, a thought sliding neatly into place. _That's why Sidle was asking yesterday about a transfer to the swing shift._ Followed by another; _that's why Grissom didn't put himself down to do her evaluation_. Hmm. Could he _prove_ that Grissom had abused his position? Possibly not, given the apparently short duration of the relationship with Sidle, especially if she argued that it was consensual (his mind shied away from the memory of them kissing against the truck; Grissom and 'passionate kiss' in the same sentence was not a thought he was willing to entertain whilst sober). If Grissom had – as seemed to be the case - taken steps to rectify the situation, it would be hard to _prove_ abuse of position, unless he could find a night shift CSI willing to testify to Grissom's discriminating in favour of Sidle.

_Unlikely. They must _like_ working for an emotionally-retarded, borderline-Asperger's Syndrome workaholic with inadequate communications skills; the way they're loyal to him, you'd think he was their father and not their boss. _Mood soured somewhat, he turned the key, reflecting with grim amusement that he didn't necessarily have to _prove_ anything. Grissom's own annoyingly idealistic sense of morality could be about to come into its own; a few snide hints about the difficulty of restraining oneself when temptation wandered into the lab would probably be more than enough to have the man torturing himself over whether he was doing the right thing. Which would be entertaining at least; the cherry on the cake of his recent triumph in their ongoing battle of wills.

Ecklie's musings on the delights of needling his rival were halted by the sight of a single white sheet of paper on the inside porch door, pinned so that he couldn't miss it (but not of course on the outside porch door; Marcia evidently wasn't quite mad at him enough to pin it outside where someone else might see it). He locked the door behind him and reset the alarm, then unfolded it. It was remarkably concise. _Gone to stay with Mom. _Well, that explained why the house was empty. And untidy, he realised, as he walked through it. It was as though she had simply picked up her purse and walked out.

He shrugged, dropped his briefcase onto the couch, and decided that the situation called for a brandy. He poured himself a large measure and strolled over to the window, staring out at the neatly manicured garden. So. What to do, where to start? This called for careful consideration…. He turned to the bookshelf, eyes scanning across the titles… _The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Who Moved My Cheese? The Way of the Rat: A Survival Guide to Office Politics_…. not quite what he was looking for. Almost without thinking, he picked up a much-read copy of _Sun Tzu: The Art of War for Managers_. Good advice never really dated; two thousand years old and the advice within was still sound. Those classic lines, _Know the enemy, and know thyself._ Of course, he thought mordantly, for so many people they were one and the same.

But before contemplating the sage's words, he asked himself his own question, _What's the best and worst things that could happen here? _Again, he thought, the answer to both questions was one and the same; _Grissom quitting_. Much as it pained him to admit it, and much as it would be personally satisfying, affording him complete domination over his empire, he could not afford to be seen as the man who drove one of the country's – being honest, one of the _world's_ – premier forensic entomologists out of the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. He might consider Grissom's unorthodox approach to be wasteful of resources, but from a public relations point of view, losing the man would be extremely damaging, both to the lab and to his own career. Which rather severely limited his options, especially if Grissom himself figured that out.

_If he doesn't, Sidle certainly will. Her grasp of office politics may be somewhat crude, but she could teach Willows a thing or two about how things really work_. Yes, Grissom might be prepared to go quietly (understandably, perhaps; how often did someone like him meet a woman that attractive?), but Sidle wouldn't. He could see her threatening to go to the press, claim that their human rights were being breached… in fact, she wouldn't need to, Ecklie mused, she'd simply need to point out to Grissom that Ecklie's being known as the man who got him fired would be self-destructive, and that he could strike a telling blow by making this as public and messy a row as possible. Grissom might be too noble to fight dirty, but she undoubtedly wouldn't be. He could easily see her playing for the sympathy vote, playing the 'All We Did Was Fall In Love, Ecklie Is A Heartless Bastard' card for all it was worth. That could be potentially damaging; the night shift would undoubtedly take their colleagues' side, and quite possibly others in the lab would too. A loud and public enough row, followed by Grissom resigning, and he would find himself on the receiving end of a lecture about the need to present a united front to the public and avoid adverse publicity, along with some heavy hints about how he could forgot the next promotion until he'd found someone of Grissom's calibre to replace the man.

What about Sidle herself, though? Could he make _her_ leave? No great loss to the lab there; the woman was a public relations catastrophe just waiting to happen, and unlike Grissom, she _was_ replaceable, particularly now that Sanders had completed his proficiency test. That would be a _much_ more satisfying outcome. He was almost surprised at how angry the memory of her insults still made him, although he would admit to a certain grudging respect for her having the balls to say them to his face. _Know thyself_… well, he would admit that there was a certain amount of truth in what she'd said, but he could only shake his head at her naivete in assuming that what she called 'kissing ass' was in some way unfair. That was how the world worked. Those who could get ahead, did so by any means necessary; those who could not had proven that they didn't deserve to hold office by the self-evident fact of their failing to achieve it.

Yes, getting Sidle to leave the lab would be a deeply satisfying experience. It would earn him Grissom's undying enmity, but he could happily live with that._ Know the enemy_, though… How much _did_ Grissom value his relationship with Sidle? Would he refuse to stay if she left? Worse, would he simply say that if Ecklie caused Sidle resign, he would leave too? No-one was truly irreplaceable, but for the purposes of his, Ecklie's, career, Grissom might as well be. For the first time, he found himself wishing he understood the man better. A memory drifted through his head, an old conversation between them; "What are you so afraid of, Conrad? We're just a couple of science geeks. Why can't we work together?" His reply: "No, we are public servants." Which adequately summed up the differences between them.

Frustrated, he finished the brandy in one gulp and dropped the glass with a thud onto the table. It was deeply galling to realise that which he'd always thought of Grissom's weakness, his utter disregard for achieving professional advancement, was likely to be the one thing that prevented him from using the knowledge he'd just acquired. Yes, he could undoubtedly get Grissom or Sidle out of the lab, once and for all, but it might well prove to be a Pyrhic victory, and he really didn't want to risk what he'd worked so hard to achieve.

_Know thyself… you're avoiding thinking about the other options, Conrad_. There was a third option, of course; argue that Grissom had proven himself unfit to hold a supervisory post, and get the man demoted. That would be much easier to achieve, and in many ways very satisfying. Knowing every day that Grissom had got himself demoted through his own stupidity, knowing whenever they spoke that they both _knew_ that, being able to feel superior every time they saw each other.. yes, that had potential. Given how intensely private Grissom was, it would be deeply embarrassing to both him and Sidle for the details of their private life to become public knowledge, especially in the context of a disciplinary hearing, which would be gossiped about in great detail. He could imagine the rumours… _You'll never guess who's been screwing one of his shift-workers. Really? Him? It's always the quiet ones you have to watch. I always thought they had a thing for each other, ever since the chalk dust case… hey, you think they ever did it in the lab?_

Oh, that would be enjoyable. So, why not do it? He was well within his rights and it would be a much less damaging option than getting either of them fired. Because, he mused, he _did_ know Grissom reasonably well, and given the man's total lack of interest in climbing the career ladder, he could easily see him just shrugging, saying "Well, that does seem like the most sensible solution". From Grissom's point of view, once he'd ridden out the rumours and it became yesterday's news, downsizing would have the advantages that he could both keep his job _and_ continue to see Sidle. He would lose some income, but with no family to support, that would hardly be a major consideration for him. Worse still, Ecklie realised, he himself had just seen to it that, by promoting her to the swing shift, Willows couldn't be promoted to night shift supervisor, and there was no-one else on that shift with sufficient seniority to replace Grissom. There was a distinct possibility that the powers that be might decide that sufficient time had elapsed that Jim Brass could be allowed back into the fold, assuming that he would take the job.

Grissom and Brass had been friends for some time… would he accept the post as a favour to his friend? If that happened, he might just as well not bother to demote Grissom; the two of them would carve up the post's responsibilities between them. Damnit, why wasn't there a simple solution? _There is, _he realised_. Do nothing, allow Sidle to move onto the swing shift and ensure that she and Grissom don't work together in the future._ But that offered no personal satisfaction at all, and worse, it would mean he'd have to watch Grissom merrily continuing not only as night shift supervisor and potential rival for future promotions, but continuing to sleep with the woman who had caused him to be the laughing-stock of the department for nearly a week. Oh, he'd seen the looks on their faces, even heard one or two of them muttering 'Kissing ass…' to each other behind his back when they thought he couldn't hear. The most galling aspect of all was that Grissom truly didn't care that any of this needled Ecklie. He might just as well wear a t-shirt that said: "I am above such petty concerns as the getting and maintaining of status, for all around me know of my reputation and know that I care not what the world thinks". It was not an attitude that Ecklie himself could ever adopt, but he wondered whether perhaps he could try understand it a little more.

So. What to do? To use the weapon that fate had kindly dropped into his hands to even the score once and for all? Or to simply monitor the situation and restrain himself to a few enjoyable digs at Grissom once Sidle moved off the night-shift? He mentally tossed a coin. Mentally, the coin hovered in the air, came down… then bounced on one side and fell away down the side of the couch, forgotten, as he realised that neither answer was really what preoccupied him. _Be honest, Conrad Ecklie… the reason you're obsessed with this isn't because you're worried about _Grissom's_ love life_, _though admittedly the thought that he's probably about to do it for the second time with a stunningly pretty woman fifteen years younger than he is whilst you're sat in your empty house, trying to avoid wondering if your wife has just left you, isn't exactly an enjoyable one. _

Hah. He put the book down, and decided to put thoughts of Grissom, Sidle and the rest of the department out of his head. _To know when to act and when not to act is part of wisdom_… Yes, he thought. For now he would simply maintain a position of watching and waiting, keeping his knowledge as the ace up his sleeve. And if Sidle did move across to the swing shift and the two of them continued to see each other? Well, there would still be plenty of opportunities to needle Grissom. He was, after all, only a supervisor, not Assistant Director. Ecklie walked over to the telephone, and hit the speed-dial. "Hello? Yes, it's me, Conrad. Is Marcia there? Can I talk to her?"


End file.
